


Magic is Coming

by beeeinyourbonnet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeinyourbonnet/pseuds/beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Gold makes a deal with the librarian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based off the fortune cookie soap line of OUAT products and also a conversation on tumblr--also good morning storybrooke. Yes okay enjoy the magic ;D

The town had realized that the way to get things from Mr. Gold for lowered prices was to go through the librarian long before Mr. Gold had realized this. He knew something was up as soon as he walked in at his usual time Friday morning, but sometimes Belle looked suspicious when there was a book she wanted him to read that she didn’t think he’d like, so he thought nothing of it.

“Good morning, Mr. Gold,” she said to the computer. He leaned against the desk.

“Good morning, Miss French. Is everything all right?”

“Actually, it isn’t.” She looked up at him, alleviating his sudden anxiety with a small smile.

He rested both hands on his cane and gave her a bland look. “Have I done something?”

“Yes, you have.” She looked away from the computer and clasped her hands in front of her, lips moving around like they were fighting to remain stoic. “Are you aware that you have unpaid book fines?”

“I was not aware. Can you list the books on which I incurred these fines?”

“You kept _Frankenstein_ for a week longer than you were supposed to.”

He recalled that. It was the week that Belle had spent in Boston, and paying an overdue book fine was preferable to visiting the library when she wasn’t there.

“And how much do I owe?”

“I’m going to write down a figure, and I don’t want you to be alarmed.”

“I’ll try my hardest.”

She plucked a post-it note off the desk and scribbled something on it, then folded it up and stuck it in front of him. When he unfolded it, it read _$1.75_.

“My, my. What an exorbitant fee.” He folded the note and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “Could we perhaps work out a payment plan? One quarter a week?”

“I can do you one better.” She smiled, and he gave her the ghost of one in return. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“Oh? What kind of deal?”

“Come talk about your new line of bath products on _Good Morning, Storybrooke_ on Monday, and I’ll clear your debt.”

“I beg your pardon?”

 

* * *

 

Monday morning found him sitting in a tall chair, eyes closed while Ruby Lucas put makeup on his face. The deal had been struck, and all he had to show for it was an extra $1.75 in his pocket. He had not been on the good end of this deal.

“Good morning, Mr. Gold!” Belle said, popping into the makeup room. She was already lined and blushed, with her usual berry lips, holding a book. Would they be putting lipstick on him? How did this work?

“Is it?”

She perched on the chair next to him, one stocking-clad leg tucked behind the other. “I’ve come with some news.”

“The rest of the studio burned down and now I can go home?”

Ruby stuck the foundation brush in his ear and he flinched, and then Belle reached over and hit him with the book.

“No. Goldie and Hart ate some bad takeout last night and are out with food poisoning. I’ll be the one interviewing you!”

He turned to look at her, and Ruby stuck the brush in his ear again. Scowling, he turned back to the mirror.

“Well, that’s the first news I’ve heard that isn’t bad since we made our deal.”

Belle looked more cheerful than his pessimism warranted, and hopped off the chair with a friendly pat on his shoulder. “Great! See you soon, then. Kathryn will be in shortly to explain everything to you.”

“Great,” he echoed, glaring at his own reflection in the mirror as Ruby opened up a blush that was more pink than he ever wanted to admit.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Gold was not a man who got stage fright, and yet as soon as he took his seat next to Belle with his cup of coffee—which was not just right, despite the station’s slogan—he was sure that he was going to throw up and ruin everything.

“It’s going to be fine.” Belle smoothed her skirt for the six or seventh time. “Everything is fine.”

“You look nervous, dearie. Perhaps we should call it a day?”

“Why would I be nervous? Just because—oh, we’re almost on!”

He swallowed, rubbing the handle of his coffee cup. When they cued Belle to begin, he tried not to lick his lips—looking like a predator on camera was not going to earn him any favors, and if he looked nervous, it would ruin his business.

“Today, I’m here with Mr. Gold, local terror of Storybrooke and now aspiring entrepreneur.”

His head snapped up to look at her, and the wolfish, self-satisfied grin that should have followed that statement was instead just a wobbly-lipped half-smile. The entire town was going to know, without a doubt, that he had a soft spot for the librarian.

“I’m already an entrepreneur, actually. I built all of my businesses up from the ground.”

“Well, what made you want to start from scratch again?”

_Nothing_ , he wanted to say. The bath products had been Regina’s idea—a way to mock him that he couldn’t protest, because it would make him look wishy-washy about his investments, and he never looked wishy-washy.

“I thought I’d give back to the community.” He set his coffee on the desk and rested his hands atop his lap, tenting his fingers. “Being an antiquities dealer is pleasant, but it’s not quite the universal market that bath products are.”

Belle was nodding, eyebrows drawn together in the way that all serious newscasters did, and Gold knew it was only a matter of time before she threw him under the bus with some hard-hitting question about his new line.

“Now, did you design the line by yourself, or do you have a partner?”

Regina had designed the line, but he refused to give her credit. “The company that I’m working with has a team doing the technical design, but I outlined my preferences and had the final say on all of the scents.”

“Well, Mr. Gold, what I love about this line is that it’s being marketed to small shops all over New England, but you’ve given it a lovely, small-town feel by naming all of your scents after Storybrooke citizens. I particularly love ‘Belle’s body butter,’ and I use it after every shower.”

He wanted to feel something about that—his mind told him that, when he replayed this incident later, he certainly would—but the twinkle in her eye and the mischievous tilt to her lips had him on edge, and he knew something else was coming.

“For which I’ve been using ‘Mr. Gold’s body wash.’” She reached down and pulled a bottle from somewhere—how had he not noticed that?—and pointed it toward the camera with a toothy smile. “The scent you chose for this is lovely, by the way. What went into that thought process?”

For a second, all he could do was stare at the bottle with his mouth slightly open. Regina was going to die—also, he might die, too, because Belle used his body wash in the shower. Naked. Oh god. “I suppose I just wanted something to reflect my lovely personality.” Did he sound hoarse? His entire face felt too dry.

Belle laughed, sounding for a second as though she was being genuine instead of playing the part of a newscaster, and his lip twitched.

“Well, I particularly like the citrusy notes. It’s a very fresh, clean scent, and I think it goes perfectly with my body butter.”

Gold’s brain could only hear that his name went perfectly with hers, but he tried to come up with some semblance of a response. “I hoped to make the entire line work well together.”

“I think you’ve achieved that, and I can most certainly say that magic came to my shower after using your bath products.” She winked at the camera, and Gold may or may not have evaporated on the spot.

“That was the intent,” he said, sounding like an old man with a bronchial infection and a soft spot for the librarian seated opposite him.

She laughed again, the manufactured laugh she was meant to give this time, and turned back to the camera. “Well, that’s all the time we have now. Thank you so much, Mr. Gold, for coming in today.” She reached forward to shake his hand, and he grasped it in his own dry, wrinkly palm, hoping she couldn’t feel him quivering.

She sent the camera off to Dr. Whale, and then a crew rushed in to get him unhooked from all the sound equipment. Belle reached to turn off her own microphone and then gave him a pleased smile.

“Well, that went well, don’t you think?”

“I think you cheated me in our deal,” he said, raising his arms to let people unwind the wires. He’d have done it himself, but he couldn’t be bothered to figure out what was hooked to where.

“What?” She drooped. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you sat here and cross-examined me and all I got for it was a forgiven library fine.” He shrugged, looking over at her from under the dusty sweep of his bangs—perhaps he looked debonair that way.

“Well, fine forgiveness is a coveted commodity.”

The sound guy unhooked the last wire, said something into his mouthpiece, and then walked away, leaving the two of them alone.

“Let me take you out to dinner,” Gold said, and he hadn’t meant to say those words in particular, but there was no way he could—or would—take them back now.

Belle blinked at him, eyebrows almost in her hair. Had he ruined it? Had he gone too far? He held his breath.

“Let me cook for you,” she said instead. “It seems silly for you to buy _me_ dinner, when you’ve already done this.”

It wasn’t a no. It was the opposite of a no—it was more than a yes. It was a yes, and also an additional level of yes where she not only agreed to go on a date with him, but made it more personal. He should start new businesses all the time.

“As long as you promise not to poison me.”

 “I promise.”

“It’s a date, then?”

She smiled, biting her lower lip. “Yeah. It’s a date.”


	2. Chapter 2

Belle lived above the library in a tiny apartment. She paid rent to the city, not to him, so that Friday night was the first time he would ever set foot in it, and he had never before walked into a building with so little knowledge. The elevator didn’t go above the ground floor, so he was forced to walk up two flights of stairs. He took them slowly, not wanting to draw attention to how old he was by arriving weak-kneed and panting, and adjusted his tie at least fifteen times on the walk up.

His knuckles had hardly left the door after his third rap against it when it was being swung open, revealing Belle in a modest blue dress and form-flattering damask apron.  

“Hi!” She sounded breathless, as though she’d run from the kitchen in her impractical red pumps. “Come in.” She stepped back, opening the door wider, and he crossed the threshold in slow, measured steps.

“Hello,” he murmured, voice low so that she wouldn’t hear the strain he still felt, despite having walked slowly up the steps.

“Can I get you something to drink? I have tea, coffee—” When she hesitated, he looked up at her, brow drawn, and she bit her lip. “Wine?”

“Wine, thank you.” He licked his suddenly-dry lips. Belle was nervous about serving him wine, which either meant that she thought him too old and feeble to handle alcohol, or that she was trying to seduce him.

“Red or white?”

“Red.”

She disappeared into the kitchenette, leaving him to look around the sitting room. It was arranged in organized clutter, much like his own home, with antiques and knick-knacks scattered about on tables and shelves, covering the areas that didn’t have picture frames. A closer look revealed her framed pictures to be of her and her father, all except for two—one of which was of her, Ruby Lucas, and Emma Swan dressed as bridesmaids, and the other was Mary Margaret and David Nolan at their wedding. He moved closer to that table, wanting to get a better look at Belle in the soft lavender gown, but the sound of her heels on the wooden floor had him stumbling backwards.

“Here you go.” She handed him a large glass with a smile. “I hope you like merlot.”

“I love merlot.” He had never before much cared about it—more of a cabernet man—but he would lie about his wine preferences any day to see her eyes crinkle in the corners like they did then.

“Great.” In her other hand was a glass of white, condensation beading around her fingers. Perhaps she’d already had a few glasses in preparation for his visit. She’d never endured his company without a library to fall back on if she needed an excuse to leave, and never longer than the length of one conversation, no matter how in-depth.

“You have a lovely home,” he said, clenching his teeth together so that maybe he would stop speaking. They were past the point of making useless conversation, and he needed to step up his game if he wanted this night to go well enough that she wouldn’t kick him out of the library next time she saw him.

“Thank you.” She took a sip of wine, fingers straining against the glass from where she squeezed it. “Would you like a tour?”

He thought he could probably see most of the flat from where he stood, but he nodded anyway. “Very much.”

He offered her his elbow as though he were the one about to show her around, but she smiled and took it anyway, wrapping her fingers around the inside.

“This is the sitting room, where I like to read, and sometimes pretend that I can knit.” She gestured to an end table with a book and a mangled knit coaster.

“I could teach you to knit,” he said, looking around more now that he had explicit permission. There was also a crocheted teal afghan that he had the feeling she hadn’t made herself draped over the back of her loveseat.

“I’m not surprised,” she said, guiding him around the couch, past a lamp with a teapot base. “This is the back of the sitting room, where I often do not sit, because I am much more occupied by sitting on the couch.”

“Very interesting,” he said. They looked at each other, sharing a sideways glance that reminded him that they were in the same boat, with wine that they were both sipping too fast.  

She led him out of the room and down into the space between sitting room and kitchen, where there were two doors. One was partially opened, and she pointed to it and informed him that it was the bathroom, and the other was closed.

“This is my bedroom,” she said, making no move to open the door. “It is currently unfit for strange eyes.”

What did that mean? He hadn’t come looking for sex at all, but was that her way of telling him that it was entirely off the table?

“I’ll keep my eyes to myself, then,” he said, gulping down his wine. That made it sound like he was ogling her, didn’t it?

“You don’t have to do that all—oh!” The oven timer interrupted her, and then she was pulling away from his arm and rushing toward the kitchen, hips swishing more than he thought they should. Was he supposed to follow her?

“Why don’t you sit down?” she called over her shoulder, sliding oven mitts on as she did. “I’ll be at the table in a minute.”

“Of course.” He limped toward the table, trying to calm his nerves by concentrating on his steps. Which seat was he supposed to use? She’d taken her wine glass into the kitchen with her, and the square table didn’t have any indication of where the woman of the house would sit.

“Which—” He was interrupted by a clang and Belle cursing, so he pressed his lips together and studied the table. Maybe it was a test—if he could choose the correct seat, then Belle would know that he cared enough. This would be okay. He liked puzzles.

There was no difference between the two seats. Each water glass was empty, each plate spotless, each napkin folded exactly the same. The three tea lights set in porcelain lotuses were evenly spaced between the two seats, and the bottles of wine were centered behind them. He looked up at Belle, getting serving dishes down from a high shelf by standing on her toes, and made his decision. She was the hostess and the chef—she would want to sit closest to the kitchen.

He sat on the edge of his chair just in case she wanted him to move, but when she emerged from the kitchen carrying a glass platter of tomatoes and mozzarella, she set her wine glass down at the other place setting. He tried to be quiet about letting out the breath he’d been holding, getting slightly more comfortable in his chair now that he knew this was all right.

Both places were set with a small plate for salad and a plate that didn’t seem large enough for a meal, as well as silverware. Belle came out next with a plate of garlic bread smothered in bubbling cheese, and then with two bowls of linguini in some cream sauce, garnished with chopped bacon and parsley, which she set on the too-small plates. He frowned, trying to sniff it without her noticing so that he could identify it.

“Carbonara,” she said, smoothing her skirt as she sat down. “I hope you don’t mind, I’m experimenting.”

“They say that one should not experiment with recipes when one has guests,” he said, hands folded in his lap.

“Yes, but I thought you’d be up for the challenge.” She served herself some of the Caprese salad, and then offered him the fork, probably sensing that he was too nervous to start without being given explicit permission.

“I am up for any challenge.” Except the challenge of serving himself a piece of cheese and a piece of tomato in the same go—he couldn’t get either of them to stay on the fork as effortlessly as Belle had, so he gave up and served himself a tomato before going for the bread instead. When he looked back, the cheese had appeared on his plate, and Belle was sipping her wine.

Everything looked delicious, and everything smelled delicious, but it all tasted like sandpaper as soon as it touched his lips. He was almost fifty, and had stopped feeling awkward when eating in company long ago, but he couldn’t help feeling like he was out of his element here in Belle’s cozy apartment, trying to eat linguine without slurping or getting it on his tie. He wished she’d have let him take her to a fancy restaurant—there, he would have been the expert, and he could have ordered something exotic that made him look cultured and attractive. Here, he felt like the poor man he’d been decades ago.

They talked about something, he was sure, but he could not remember what in between sentences. He kept up somehow, complimenting her and her cooking whenever there was a lull, and refilling his wine glass more than he should have. 

“Are you ready for dessert?” she asked, and he hadn’t even realized that they’d finished dinner, but when he looked down, his bowl was empty.

“You made dessert?” Great—so he could feel guilty for eating something else she cooked that was as beautiful as she was and tasting none of it.

“Of course.” She shook her head at him like he was a small boy who’d stolen a cookie. “How could you think I’d invite you over for a dinner date and not make dessert?”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “A grievous error on my part. I shall endeavor not to make the same mistake twice.”

“See that you don’t.”

She stood, picking their bowls up as she did, so he started to get up as well, intending to take the bread plate in. She held the bowl out toward him to block him.

“Sit. You are my guest, let me take care of you.”

“If you insist.” No one had ever tried to take care of him before. It made him feel a little itchy.

Dessert was a _crème _brûlée__ that she’d baked into one oval dish the size of his head. He thought she might serve it—which would be the first time he’d ever eaten a crème brûlée outside of the ramekin in which it was baked—but all she did was scoot her chair closer to his and hand him a spoon.

“I thought we could share?” she said, biting her lip, and all he could do was nod.

It was warm because she’d had to broil the sugar, and he considered buying her a blowtorch as a cheeky nod to their first date—but that hinged on the fact that she had enjoyed his company and wanted more of it in the future, which he was not sure about yet.

“This came out pretty well, didn’t it?” She pulled the spoon out of her mouth slowly, and with a small pop. He pressed his legs together.

“Another experiment? I’m beginning to think that you’re trying to scare me off.”

“On the contrary, I’m trying to lure you in with my wild, experimental nature.” She flipped her spoon over and licked it clean, watching him as she did. She might have been trying to seduce him right then and there over dessert, but she looked too much like she was trying not to laugh, so he tucked away the desire roaring through him.

“Your bait is very tempting,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth tilted up. “And all of your offerings have been delicious.”

“Why, thank you.” She inclined her head, lips pressed together to subdue her smile. “I’m glad my plan is working.”

They were sitting so much closer together now, with hardly a corner between them anymore, and their knees bumped whenever one of them moved to change angles with their spoons.

“Oh!” Belle said as they both dived in at the same time, dropping half of her own bite onto his spoon. “Sorry about that.”

“How dare you,” he said, unable to keep his voice from its silky murmur—but forever grateful that it was not a feeble whisper. It was probably the wine.

“Oh, Robert, you have sugar on your lip,” Belle said, hand pressing to his cheek to still it before he had the chance to move.

She bit her lip, and he made no move to mimic the gesture, for fear of removing whatever it was she’d seen and therefore removing her reason to touch his face. Her thumb moved toward the corner of his mouth, brushing it, and he stopped breathing. Could she feel the rhythm of his heart pounding like it was trying to break through his ribcage?

“I hope you don’t think I’m being rude.” Her voice came out in a soft breath, and before he had a chance to respond, she was licking the sugar off of his bottom lip, and then his hands were in her hair and dessert was forgotten while they kissed, mouths squashed together with no regard for technique, focused only on getting as close together as possible.

It hurt his back to lean around the chair like this, but he wasn’t about to say anything. Any amount of pain was worth the feel of Belle’s silken hair between his fingers, her sugary lips on his.

“Couch?” Belle suggested, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her pupils were huge, and if she looked like that, he couldn’t imagine what he looked like. He nodded, stroking her hair back.

Belle led him by the hand while he tried to keep his cane quiet so that she might forget about it. When they sat, she curled toward him, her knee resting on his thigh, and he wrapped one arm around her shoulder before kissing her again.

It was everything he’d dreamed it would be, except now he could taste Belle—and she tasted like wine and custard and burnt sugar, and she felt like silk and cream.

“Oh, I was going to ask if you wanted to play chess,” she said between kisses. He dragged his lips away from hers, kissing along her jaw so that they’d have room to speak.

“I’d love to play chess.”

“I have an antique set. I thought you might—ooh—appreciate it.” She tilted her neck back, giving him room to suck on her pulse.

“I’m sure I will.” He pulled away before he could leave a mark, trailing up the other side of her neck.

“It’s hand-carved.” She pressed a hand to his cheek, directing his lips back to hers.

“It sounds beautiful. We should play sometime.”

“In a bit.”

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

They did play chess, managing to tear themselves apart long enough to feel competitive, and after Belle won by the skin of her teeth, it was past eleven. She walked him to the door, lingering on the inside of the doorway while he stepped out. He turned and leaned against the door frame, lips quirked in a hesitant smile.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?” he asked, swallowing the fear that she would say no.

“Lunch is sooner.” She bit her lip and looked up at him, making his toes curl in his Oxfords.

“If you came by the shop around noon, I could perhaps acquire tea.”

“And sandwiches? Cakes?” She leaned toward him, and he felt like a magnet being pulled forward.

“Anything you’d like.”

“I’d like to see you.” She stood on her toes, shoes long since abandoned, and brushed her lips against his.

“I’d still like to take you out, if that’s all right with you.”

“I’d love to go out with you.” She kissed him again, and he held her cheek to keep her there just a few seconds longer.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he asked, pulling back enough to look at her. She nodded against his hand.

“Around noon, for tea.” She kissed him again, and then stepped back, taking hold of the doorknob. “Goodnight, Robert.”

“Goodnight, Belle.”


End file.
